


On Camouflage

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [5]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You work at Number 10. Malcolm Tucker barely notices your existence. Until you screw up....</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is NOT WRITTEN BY ME.  
> This is all the work of my series co-writer themasterplanner who doesn't have an AO3 account.  
> http://themasterplanner.tumblr.com/

***

"How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?"

\-- William Butler Yeats, "Leda and the Swan"

***

Your skin prickles in primitive warning, animal instinct honed by millions of years of evolution telling you that you should never, ever, let yourself come to the attention of the predator in front of you. Your primitive hindbrain screams at you, telling you to run, to hide.

Some predators wear spots or stripes, and roam the jungles and the savannah. This particular one just happens to wear grey Armani suits and hunts for his prey in the corridors of Whitehall.

But you push that prickling feeling aside, and hand the predator the folder.

"The crime data you asked for, Mr Tucker."

"Thank you, love." He smiles, takes the folder, and starts walking away. You try not to sigh in relief too loudly.

***

"HOW CAN I DO MY JOB IF YOU DON'T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON, YOU FUCKING PRICK?!"

The one-stop bollock shop, that's what they called the new office building, home to four governmental departments. And Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for Number 10 and apex predator of Westminster, had arrived to do what he does best. On the menu this evening was the Right Honourable Hugh Abbot MP, in charge of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship.

The glass walls of the office do absolutely nothing to impede sound, and you can hear Malcolm's litany of gruesome and creative threats, and the use of the word "fuck" as punctuation, fifty feet down the hallway. A more experienced, and more sensible, intern would have waited until he was finished, but Malcolm did ask for those spreadsheets "as soon as fucking possible"...

You reach the minister's office to see Hugh Abbot sitting at his desk, stolidly enduring yet another "bollocking" from the communications director. The minister's latest failure must have been a spectacular feat of incompetence; Malcolm sounds as if he were about to shout himself hoarse, face red and veins throbbing along his temples and neck, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.

It was such a common scene that you don't even register the exact details of what he says--but what happens next gets your undivided attention. You thought you'd seen it all during your career in Whitehall--and then you see something impossible, something that you were never supposed to see.

"--YOU WILL DO AS YOU ARE FUCKING TOLD, YOU USELESS FUCKING CUNT, OR I WILL--" At that point, your hair and clothes are blown back in a sudden gust of wind, papers fluttering off Abbot's desk. When the wind dies down, you can't believe your eyes.

Malcolm was standing in the middle of the room, breathing hard, his suit jacket and shirt in tatters, a pair of enormous, powerful wings sprouting out his back. Each wing must be at least three metres long, each feather a shimmering, gentle dove grey. They're so beautiful, so perfect, you can't help but gasp in awe, betraying your presence.

Malcolm turns round, noticing you in the doorway.

You stand frozen on the spot. He's Number 10's enforcer, the Alpha Male of Whitehall, and you're the wide-eyed gap-year student picking up some government work experience before heading to Oxbridge. You're what's colloquially known as "prey."

He runs a hand over his mouth and curses himself for losing control again, and before your eyes, his wings fade from view, leaving only two lines of discolored, scar-tissue skin on his back.

***

Presumably after having successfully intimidated Hugh Abbot into silence (something about ripping his spine out through his arsehole and choking him to death with the fucking spinal cord) Malcolm practically drags you to his office, after having nicked a shirt and suit jacket hanging unattended somewhere along the way. He locks the door behind him, and in a deceptively calm voice accented with a brash Glasgow brogue, asks you: "You're from Oxford, right? Those tweed-wearin' twats bother teachin' ye about the Winged?"

You weren't stupid. You'd been educated in some of the best schools and universities in Great Britain. You knew that at some point in prehistory, an offshoot of humanity--classified as Homo sapiens alatus--had evolved with the ability to fly, gaining feathered wings and other attributes adapted to efficient flight. These "Winged" conquered the flightless majority, ruling as royalty and aristocracy with iron hand, until baseline humanity had risen in revolt, persecuting their Winged masters. Eventually they had been driven to extinction, as their low fertility rate could not replace the population hunted and killed by baseline humans. It was usually used as a cautionary tale--a unique culture of such beauty and power was lost to the world because of humanity's intolerance and ignorance.

"But winged humans are extinct," you finally manage to stammer. "Everyone knows that."

(One of your exes, when he was well in his cups on New Year's Eve, once told you that he was born with wings. Of course, you assumed at the time he was just bullshitting you.)

"Yeah, that's what we'd prefer ye to think, right?"

Some harmless animals mimic the coloration of poisonous ones to warn off predators; Malcolm Tucker and the rest of his kind had done the reverse. This great bird of prey had hidden his wings, camouflaged himself as an ordinary human. How many others like him walked among baseline humanity, while they remained blissfully unaware?

(You can't say you can blame the Winged for their deception. They lived out in the open once, and look what happened.)

***

Maybe it's the air of predatory charisma that he wears like a second skin, or maybe it's his effortless charm and audacity, or his elegantly slim but strong-looking build, or his gravelly Scots burr. Maybe it's the great wings, each silken feather the colour of storm clouds.

Whatever the reason for it, that night you dream of Malcolm Tucker. He hovers over you, elegant and exceedingly handsome in a silver-foxy way, his grey wings gathered around his thin shoulders like a cloak, and fixes you with his piercing predator's stare. With the slightest pressure of his muscles, the sleek wings unfurl to their full span, so intimidating and so mesmerizing in their beauty that you can only stop and stare until he sweeps them around you in a feathery embrace.

You touch yourself, and imagine that it's Malcolm's fine-boned hands that are touching you as you gaze into his steel-grey eyes and stroke those silvery, silky-soft feathers. You don't entirely succeed in hiding your moans from your flatmates.

***

You find it increasingly hard to do your job. Your performance suffers. After an exceptionally severe email mix-up, Malcolm finally calls you into his office, and locks the door, and tells you, in no uncertain terms, that he can't afford to have his staff distracted and anxious before a major cabinet reshuffle. He offers to relieve your obvious stress.

"I can fucking smell it on you, ye know," he'd said, sniffing at your neck. "Your desire. You might as well be wearing a fucking Vegas neon sign round your neck."

"I apologize if my behavior towards you has been less than professional, Mr Tucker. I will try--"

With a seductive, almost cruel confidence, he takes your head in his hands and crushes your lips with his own in a slow, surprisingly sensual kiss. You don't push him away.

"It's pheromones, love. I'm a natural predator, ye can't fucking hide that from me."

When he asks you if you're sure about this, you plead for him to take you. He smiles, sensual cruelty briefly flickering behind his grey eyes, as if he knows the power he has over you.

(The voice of reason in your head tells you to push him away and walk out of the office without looking back. Deep in your heart of hearts, your quintessentially female desires want him to take control.)

The first thing he does--actually, the third thing, as the first thing he does is to shove chairs out of the way and back you up against the wall until you're trapped between Malcolm and the bookcase, and the second is to strip off his suit jacket and shirt ("I don't want to ruin another fucking suit, these cost more than some used cars," he'd said)--is move your hair out of the way, the better to scrape your neck with his teeth. You feel a sudden gust of wind as his wings expand, blowing some of the papers on his desk away. His feathers tickle your skin, those immense, powerful wings curled around you so that all you see is Malcolm, in a cocoon of dove grey feathers. His wiry, whipcord-tough body is unusually warm against yours--he must have a high metabolic rate, as birds do--and his wingspan is breathtakingly large, spanning the entire length of his spacious office.

(You could make a Freudian joke about how the size of a man's wings corresponds to the size of some of his other parts. But that's such low-hanging fruit it's fucking buried in the earth's mantle.)

His hands--those long, pale, elegant hands--are all over you, caressing your breasts, teasing at your nipples with feather-light touches as his thin lips move toward your collarbone. He moves his hands up the sensitive insides of your thighs, then roughly yanks your knickers down and reaches up to thrust a single finger up inside you.

"So wet, so fucking wet," his husky voice growls in your ear. He withdraws, then pumps his finger back in even harder. "You're dripping for me already, aren't ye? You filthy little fucking Poxbridge tart."

"Please, Malcolm," you moan, your entire body hovering on the brink. You're slick with arousal, your breasts swelled and nipples peaked and hard. He responds by flicking his thumb on your clitoris, teasing until you cry out, your conscious mind short-circuiting. "More."

You are the prophet in the lion's den, the deer in the headlights. You are utterly at the mercy of the predator, and he knows it.

"Christ, ye're tight." He withdraws his hand from you to go up your blouse and tweak a nipple, sending a sharp electric ache straight through you, before resuming its place between your legs. "So tight--and hot--and wet."

You reach for his belt and trouser fly, but he grabs your wrist and wrenches it away with more-than-human strength. "You can't have my cock, love," he says. "Not only are ye fucking filthier than a truck stop's septic tank, you're so low in the Whitehall food chain that fucking snakes could step on ye."

He continues the filthy talk in that raspy, Scots-accented voice--according to him, you're dirtier than Ollie Reeder's fucking browser history--ignoring your moans, your restless thrusting of your hips against him, and your hands clawing at the heated steel of his back and shoulders. He nibbles on the delicate shell of your ear, and you make no move to resist as he roughly pushes two long fingers deep inside the slick, wet entrance to your body. He begins to spread his fingers, causing your inner muscles to clench and spasm around them, but stops before you go over, keeping you balanced on the finest of edges. You eagerly grind your hips on his fingers, in an attempt to urge him to finally grant you release, but he maintains his torturously indolent pace even as he dips his head to bite the soft skin of your shoulders, hard enough to tease but not hard enough to leave marks.

"Please." You aren't sure how much more of this you can take. You finally satisfy your curiosity and reach up, stroking the sensitive upper curves of his wings and running your hands down the silken flight feathers, eyes wide with wonder.

"Tell me," he growls, "that you will never fucking cock up like that again."

"Fine, okay," you gasp, your heart pounding in your ears. "I won't, just please--"

"Now I'll let ye come for me, my dirty little slut." He finally allows you to ride those wicked fingers, your body moving with a will of its own and your breath coming in harsh pants, as he moves those knowing hands in a rapid rhythm and rubs at the pulsing nub of sensitive nerve endings with his thumb.

"Come on Poxbridge, fucking come for me already. I haven't got all fucking day, ye know." He impatiently thrusts faster and almost brutally hard with his fingers, his other hand pulling at your hair and then, after roughly inserting a third finger into you and pressing down hard on your clit, he covers your mouth so no one hears you cry out in the hardest orgasm of your fucking life (not that you record these sorts of things...), a hard and violent release that leaves you seeing supernovae, trembling, limp, and panting against the bookcase.

***

Malcolm wipes his wet fingers off with a handkerchief, and hides his wings once more, throwing his dress shirt and suit jacket on. He opens the door, and finally dismisses you with a disgusted: "Now pull yer knickers up and get out of my fucking sight."

You can't help but obey, stumbling out of the office on weak legs.

***

Years later, after the inquiry, when everything he's done for the Party finally catches up to him and his legal troubles force him into retirement, you remember all of this when a tabloid reporter's search for more dirt on Malcolm brings her to your office. Despite the large sum offered, you don't reveal the continued existence of the Winged, or the tryst in his office. It's the only gift you can give him in return; even after all this time, sometimes you still think of Malcolm Tucker, that beautiful and terrible creature of the Westminster skies, and the memory of his hands and mouth and feathers on your skin gets you hot and wet every time.


End file.
